


nothing but a fever dream

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Series: Author's Favourites [22]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 20th Century, Gen, Israeli-Paelstinian conflict, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: Or: Israel.





	nothing but a fever dream

**Author's Note:**

> *dodges barrages of accusations of antisemitism, islamophobia, inaccurate depictions middle eastern history, and inappropriate reimaginings of Israeli-Palestinian relations.*
> 
> This story is written almost entirely from Israel's POV, so if it comes off as biased, well, that's because it is. 
> 
> It held off on posting this for near a year. But... I'm done with being afraid now. Maybe someone will even like it, who knows.

Israel awakes to nothing but blinding, striking, all knowing pain.

When he first wakes, he simply gasps, reaches at empty air in front of him and bites down on his lip until he tastes something warm, metallic that he soon knows to be blood.

For some reason, it’s a familiar taste, and losing it is a familiar feeling.

His legs tremble when he shoves himself against the wall and pushes himself upwards, towards the sky.

_God. _He thinks as he looks up, eyes meeting the star stuck dark blue sea above him, eyes lost in constellations and the reams of pain that met his bones with standing on his own.

אלוהים , he thinks first, and then an echo, גאָט , eyes widening. He knows, he knows he knows, he’s heard those languages, and they’re different, so different, but they’re both part of him,- because,- what is it again?

The pain strikes in his shoulder, and he looks up to the sky.

God does not give an answer, but he gets up anyways.

It’s what He would want.

.

The land he has woken up in is not friendly; in physicality nor atmosphere. The sand kicks up behind him when he runs from shop owners who yell at him for stealing, stinging his eyes and leaving his mouth with nothing but gritty rock to taste, bread stale and water tinted brown from the Jordan.

His hand balances on the edge of the knife as he cuts the cloth of his dirtied white tunic to wrap the bloody stain on his ankle, from tripping over a brick of a destroyed building. He’d heard men shouting behind him, not at him but at each other. Some of it he hadn’t understood, had been in a language he hadn’t cared for, but they’d been fighting.

They seemed to do that a lot. Ever since he’d woken up, it’d been all he’d heard.

.

One time, slipping silently through the streets, he’d hit someone, about his size, and in that second he’d frozen.

A boy his age, maybe older, had stared him back, almost black eyes and brown skin and parted lips.

“من أنت-“ He said, and Israel had simply tilted his head. The other boy eyed Israel with a subtle glance that spoke of weariness.

But something in Israel pushed himself to reach out to this other boy, who stared at him with curiosity.

The boy was thin, thinner than Israel, who’d become apt at stealing to the point where he did not need to lean on the odd force that seemed to keep him alive, although it always made his bones ache and his skin feel like it was bruising despite that is wasn’t.

Hand fixing to hip, he pulled out a wrap of flat bread from the lining of his pocket, and shoved it into the boy’s hands.

“קח את זה” He says, lips forming around the words easily like he’d come to in these past years, and stares at the other boy, dark eyes widening as Israel pulls his hand away.

The other boy stutters back as if touched by a fire.

“لكن لماذا؟” The boy replies, and Israel shrugs, not understanding, before walking away, leaving both himself and the boy nothing but thoughts, and, in the other boy’s case, a roll of flat bread.

.

He runs into the boy more after that, shoulder just bumping once amongst the crowds in the busy, violent streets of Jerusalem. It reaches a pinnacle where he can pinpoint those dark eyes from across the room of a roofless building, and Palestine recognizes too pale settler, despite his similarities to the others he has seen of late.

One day, they meet again, cornered in the back of a sand stuck building, and Israel finds himself accidentally pinned to the wall by a stranger that is not really a stranger.

The boy reaches into his cloth bag and pulls out something wrapped in thin paper, pressing it into Israel’s hands as if it is precious to him.

“آسف” He whispers to Israel, who by now has spent enough time in this city to understand that word of the foreign to him language (Arabic, he thinks it’s called, although he’s heard other names).

Israel wonders why the boy is apologizing, but before he can demand in broken Arabic why, the boy turns on his heel and runs out of the hidden corner, feet treading up dust which Israel has come to detest.

But before he leaves the shadows entirely, he turns around and glances at Israel. He pauses, hesitating over the words before saying them.

Then, in broken Hebrew; “I… My name. Palestine. And you?”

Israel pauses, eyes widening at this odd stranger who’s just dropped a wrapped package into his hands.

“Is…Israel.” He says, saying it in Hebrew because he doesn’t believe there’s a word for it in Arabic.

The boy nods. “حسنا” He says, and then truly leaves, nothing but a trail of dust following his wake.

Israel walks home, or at least to the little corner he calls home.

Sitting down on a piece of rubble, he eyes the package curiously, tilting his head.

He unfolds it carefully, making sure not to damage the cloth. Even if it wasn’t worth much, it was likely still valued as something.

His eyes widen as the cloth falls away, to a slice of filo pastry with traces of green on its inside.

He’s seen these before, in shops of the highest quality. He’d stolen a piece once, and it had tasted like all of heaven and God’s great graces.

He sends a silent prayer to the boy, whoever he is, whatever he stands for.

.

It all changes in the split of a second. One minute he’s on the street, hands levering himself over a wall and staring out onto the golden topped roof of the הַר הַבַּיִת, and the next he’s in some sort of fancy room, all pristine white walls and flags he’s only seen before when there were being burned.

A man stands in front of him, ruffled blond hair and bright smile apparent. “Hey… What’re you doing here?” he asks.

Israel shuffles. “I… don’t know.” He says, looking at his hands questioningly, as if they held the answers, lips turning downwards slyly in suspicion.

“Wait- could you be- What’s your name, little dude?” The man says, giving him a smile that Israel immediately decides he likes.

“Israel.” He says without hesitation, and the man starts a bit, before his wide grin returns, and he turns the other way to shout something out the door.

“Oh. Hey guys, there’s a nation here!” He says, and a few short minutes later a few others step in.

Israel counts them; two more blond men, one with long hair and for some reason a rose in his hand, and another with eyebrows that took up much more of his face than Israel thought was truly possible. Or necessary.

He also swore on his entire life he’d seen them before.

They tell him things, like how he’s a country, how he’s the result of someone the man called America knows as ‘Germany’, the one called France calls ‘L’Allemand’ and the one called England dubs kindly “That fucking goddamn kraut.”

They tell him about relations and economy, and over time Israel finds his gaze running over to America, bright eyes and full of confidence, who looks at him, trembling slightly, and puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles at him.

“Don’t worry.” He says. “We got your back.” He says, and something crushing the space in his lungs alleviates a bit.

Eventually other people enter the room, these ones not blond haired nor pale; they remind him of the boy who’d given him _baklava, _dark hair and even darker hair; darker than him, who was beginning to feel out of place amidst the pale ‘nations’ as they’d called themselves.

They don’t like him as much, glaring. One who America refers to as ‘Egypt’ glares at him so much Israel feels he may be trying to drill a hole into his head with nothing but his vision.

But eventually they leave, even the man with long hair and the one with thick eyebrows in a weird suit, leaving just him and America.

“I’ll give you my support, militarily, so that you can establish yourself here.” He says, smiling at Palestine, pushing some papers he hadn’t spared a glance to over to Israel. He jerks a thumb towards the exit, whispering “There’s some guys there who don’t like you that much, but we’ll beat them, okay?” he says, and Israel nods, feeling something in his chest expand.

“Good. Because from now on, your name is Israel, officially. And you fight for freedom. Freedom’s awesome, k?” America says, smiling and putting a friendly hand to his shoulder, before leaving him to meet officials of his new country.

Israel stares, wishing he could see the sky from here.

“Okay.” He whispers, and then, more affirmatively,

“Okay.”

.

Times passes, and he realizes things. The men at meetings do not like him. Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Lebanon,- every single one of his neighbors despises him.

Fine then, he thinks. If they want to fight, then he will give them a fight.

The first time he fights, it is for his very right to live. At first it shocks him; the blood and grit of war, but after a few days it passes. It occurs to him that he has been through worse, somehow.

He remembers winning, the rush that came after nine long months of fighting for what was his.

He remembers marching through the streets of Jerusalem, gun in hand, wondering if he could still pinpoint that boy who he’d known all those years ago. He hadn’t found a trace. And even after that, finding his eyes wandering among the crowd of opposing soldiers on the battlefield, searching for a particular pair of near black eyes. Palestine, he’d said. Israel wondered what his last name was. Humans had those, right?

He remembers shoving those thoughts away; humans died, fast and easy and without permanence. He would close his eyes, and force himself to swallow slowly, to forget.

He remembers the sound of bullets.

And finally, he remembers sitting at the negotiating table, facing the Arab League, eyes wandering over the members of the committee, sighed with disappointment and failure, and thinking this is just the start.

.

He tries to talk to them, sometimes, his neighbors, but mostly they just glare at him. Egypt punches him once, and they end up in a fistfight. Israel wins.

He remembers one time, trying to talk to Jordan and almost succeeding. It hadn’t been much, just short discussions about policy and economy, but before he could even try to continue he’d had America warning him about how different those states were from him, and that was before England had stepped in.

“Don’t touch it.” He’d said, eyes set in, hollow glare directed over Israel’s shoulder at America.

“Why-“ Israel had said, before England’s glare had moved to him, and Israel had frozen.

“Because things will be much worse, if you do.” He says, and that not really an answer, but Israel swears he’s heard England say something similar before, before he was truly awake- alive, something he has to crane his thoughts to try and recall, vague and distilled in the backwaters of his mind.

But England leaves before he can say anything else, and the next day Jordan won’t say a word to him.

Israel has to bite back curses.

.

In some odd years, they attack him. Not on the front, like true soldiers, but attacking people, _his _people, killing them in the dark like cowards.

He checks on the border occasionally.

He swears, once, he saw a too familiar pair of dark eyes among the crowd.

.

He fights again, later, this time with France and England instead of against them, or across from a cold table in a meeting room. France seems to like him, and England almost smiles at him for the first time Israel can properly remember.

They fight, and they would’ve won, had America not stepped in.

“You can’t do that.” He’d said, England seething, France trying to keep his fists from clenching.

Only Israel spoke.

“Why?” he’d said, and America had looked him straight in the eye, confident and almost smiling, obviously the authority of the room.

Had the situation been different, Israel would’ve admired him.

“Because it’s wrong.” He says, and Israel can’t help but wonder _is it really _before the negotiations are talked over, and he nor England nor France has any say.

_That, _he thinks, _is the name of injustice, _and he prays to the Lord for guidance.

.

When they come after him again, he grits his teeth, bares them until he cannot feel the hot summer wind of Jerusalem whip at him, tug at his clothes, his hair, his very seems. His gun remains at his side, as does America. So he can win.

He does.

He fights his way to Sinai, takes the peninsula from Egypt with a smirk and a temptation to make a gesture that God would not thank him for.

Egypt seethes.

Israel’s lips twist upwards.

.

Later. Egypt tries to take back Sinai.

And Israel would’ve beat him, had it not been for Syria, had it not been for the fact that he is surrounded.

It ends with a ceasefire.

Egypt smirks at him from behind his scarf, _taqiyah_ pulled low over his face so Israel can barely see his eyes.

_That he stole from me, too. _

They just take and take, don’t they.

And use, and use and use, too.

_Wide smile, money, grand words that Israel’s not sure he believes anymore- _

He could’ve won.

.

It is sunny when Israel watches, eyes wide, as a familiar face steps into view.

The treaty has been signed, ratified and put through all the processes a democracy requires. He has withdrawn from Sinai, from Gaza, from the West Bank. He has peace, or at least the closest semblance he has ever known of it.

His officials fidget at the declaration of Independence, flipping through pages upon pages of Arabic that he still stumbles over reading sometimes.

His officials expect revolution, revolts, a tightening of security, a need to add to Mossad’s funding. Israel’s eyes search for something else.

He looks for the personification of the newly formed state of Palestine. He figures he may not find him, but looks regardless.

When the meeting finally ends and people begin to empty out, he feels one of his people tap him on the shoulder.

“ישראל” The man says to him, but Israel does not see him then, because in that sole, singular moment, his vision narrows down to nothing but the space occupied in front of him, the breath that catches in his lungs without warning.

Dark skin. Darker eyes. Untraceable gaze, slight small smile. Hollows under his eyes.

_A sweet on the rubble-plenty streets of Jerusalem, a half smile and roll of flat bread, Arabic he couldn’t understand-_

The boy- no, man, Israel knows that, they’re the same age, or at least near it, steps forwards, eyes unreadable.

He tilts his head.

“Hello,” He greets, thick Arabic accent over the diplomatic Hebrew.

“I am the state of Palestine.” He says, reaching out his hand.

It takes Israel a split second too long to realize he is attempting to shake hands.

He looks down at Palestine’s outstretched hand. Raises his chin and ignores it.

“And I am the _nation _of Israel. Pleasure to meet you.” His Arabic is better spoken than read.

Palestine’s gaze freezes to him, lips curving downwards as he drops his hand. _I see, _his eyes seem to say, and Israel sees now to, sees the answer.

“You also.” He says, dark lashes dipping when he closes his eyes, lips set in a stern line.

“I look forwards to continuing our diplomatic relations.” Israel says, and Palestine’s gaze shifts over his face.

If recognition dawns upon him, or it already had, then he does not show it.

“Yes.” Palestine responds. Israel notes the usefulness of checking members for weapons before they are allowed. 

And with that Palestine turns to leave, gaze just dipping from Israel’s eyes before he parts.

“I am sure we will continue them well into the future.” Israel hears him mutter, and he knows it is for him, because it is in Hebrew.

.

They fight. From then on, slowly and hesitantly and first, but now it is every day, all the time, so much Israel can almost tell Palestine’s every move, so much Palestine can hear the weight of Israel’s steps on dirt and immediately tell who approaches. So much Palestine wonders if God has meant to curse him, so much Israel wonders the same thing (although he would never say a word of it; he knows his purpose, he will not abandon it.)

Dust kicks up in front of him, slightly blurring Palestine’s haunted face from view.

It’s a game, Israel thinks, a war of attrition, who falls first, who spies better, who hits the proper weak spots.

Palestine fixed his gaze to the ground, teeth gritted, lips dripping blood from where Israel’s fist had cracked against his jaw. Pain flares up in his eyes, white, and then anger, black.

“I will never understand you.” Palestine gasps out, and his Hebrew is less broken now, with a certain rhythm that does not suit Israel’s language.

“You come here, take the land I have lived in-“ He gasps, switching to Arabic for a brief thought to God before returning to Hebrew, “-For centuries and you have the- what is the word- audacity to tell me I am wrong, when your powers outnumber mine, your funds put mine to ruins, you-“

Israel can feel his teeth grinding.

“-You terrorize me.” He says, nothing more, because he is not Palestine, who has allies all around him, because he cannot admit to weakness. _You kill my people, you throw _rocks _at them when they so displease you, _he restrains himself from biting out. _This is the land of my people too, before yours, have you ever considered that, _he does not say. _I cannot sleep for more than twenty minutes without jolting awake and seeing a ghost of your face in the backwater terrors of my mind, _he cannot even think.

He bares his teeth.

“-And that you have no right to do.”

Palestine levels his glare, lips twitching downwards just slightly, and then his hand goes to his hip, to the shiny gun at it.

Israel shoots him, feeling his shoulder ache. His shot is perfect. If it were a human, it would’ve killed.

Dust kicks up in Israel’s wake. He doesn’t blink.

Knees bend. Fingers go to a pulse, those dark eyes flickering up at him like hollowed candlelight.

Heartbeat.

Swallow. Push up, leave.

“You have no right to do this to me.” He whispers, to no one but the dust.

.

He fights. But from then on, he tends to do so on the battlefield, crowd to crowd, army to army. Thinking of the last time he fought alone makes his chest constrict much too tightly for his preference.

He shines his gun.

Looks to the Torah for guidance.

Leafs through the pages religiously, searching for the passages that had helped him in past years.

_‘The stranger that dwelleth with you . . . and thou shalt love him as thyself.’_

He sighs, putting the book aside, wishing he could take more comfort in it than it seems to offer him these days.

_‘You shall serve God with your whole heart.’ _The page that has left the frequently bookmarked and well-worn tome open to declares, looking out the window and realizing it is likely time for him to pray.

And so he does, closing his eyes and reciting his prayers.

He wonders why his throat feels so dry reciting them, why he does not feel that palpitation of joy in connecting with God.

But he bits his lip. It will return, he knows.

.

It appears he cannot stop fighting. His neighbors, their religion, life itself.

So he continues, guns drawn. He watches them, his people, his government, the military.

Watches his people change and grow, become something bigger than he’d ever thought they’d be, feels a smile trace on his face at their happiness, and feels warmth in his heart at the thought that he would do anything to defend it.

Watches his alliances shift, watches England’s half smiles become upturned frowns, watches France acknowledge, and then threaten, and then thank him, watches America change from glaring viciously to Russia to glaring viciously at Israel’s neighbors.

He watches the military wage wars, watches the sand of the world change and shift, falling into and out of his hand and the drop of a _kippah, _wins and loses wars.

But for all his wars, for all his people, something in the corner of his chest still hurts, the _but why don’t they want me _that comes with being hated by so many of your kind, that brings up too many thoughts of living on nothing but sheer slyness and curled smiles and the ability to scrounge ashes for coins.

But it doesn’t matter, he knows. He serves his purpose to God, to the others, to his people, so perhaps he does it to himself too.

He fights; wrecks discussion tables with what other countries will think of his actions, but it doesn’t matter. They can’t win; he can’t let them win, can’t show the world he is weak, no matter how much he craves that, simple touch of hand over hand and a _we’re friends right?, _instead of rushed proclamations of friendship between armistice deals and sales of nuclear weapons, between nervous glances astray from him, mumbles in the background of _I’m not sure we should support him anymore, he could be dangerous, but what about the Palestinians? _

But what about Palestine indeed.

.

They had kissed once, and it was short and bitter but somehow as long as the sea of everlasting stars that used to spread out beneath their feet like boundless horizons, like saltwater seas that no walls could ever hold.

Israel tasted like date rolls, and it made Palestine wish he could afford to dream of sharing one with him.

Palestine tasted like dust, and that made Israel kiss him harder, shove him up against the feeble dust shaken wall.

A hand clutched in Israel’s hair, breath leaving Palestine’s lungs as his back hits the wall.

And then Israel’s breath caught, and they broke away so quickly it was like it never happened.

.

The whole of time can be neatly divided into sectors after that; before and after. Time does not shake, the house does not fall down, but it is a perfect divisibility; invisible but somehow more than capable of being seen. A contradiction.

Palestine prays, every night, every day after that. His prayer rug is worn so thin that it has holes. Everything aches until he cannot feel his muscles nor his bones anymore.

But he continues, touching his head to the ground and whispering in half comprehensible old Arabic, begging for forgiveness.

Israel strings his gun up to one of his military shooting ranges, practicing until his hands shake from holding it for too long.

His target is five hundred meters away.

He misses every single shot.

.

The wall goes up.

Israel becomes apt at finding the cracks.

.

Time passes.

Too fast, too slowly.

The wind falls over the roofs of his capital, and he stares out over its sections.

There is a wall here too, although it was built long ago, a different time, a different conflict.

But time goes on, so Israel climbs down from the (well-built) rooftop.

It is dark, and he has places to be, people to meet, battles to fight.

His fists clench.

.

“Why do you do this?” Palestine asks one day, hand clasped around the rim of an old dagger, hilt carved in Arabic prayers and sayings to his God, a different God, lips turned downwards, eyebrows drawn together, eyes watery.

“Because I must.” Israel had replied, stumbling over the words slowly, chest constricting, and in that moment it is enough. 

It occurs to him he has heard those words before.

Because he requires more land, because the Western Powers need him to be their ideological base in the Middle East. Because he is the sole country where his religion holds a majority, because the Holy Land is here, because God demands it.

But during the dusk that follows, and the night and day and winters after, the words bite at him, spark at a nerve in his brain and makes him see nothing but red. Palestine never saw it, the cold wind of the camp, the slung words of strangers who knew nothing of him but a golden star affronted to his chest. Palestine was never told his very existence was wrong.

Palestine never had to stop existing just so others could.

Palestine never had to fight just to be allowed to live.

Israel did.

Israel does.

. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes
> 
> אלוהים -God (Hebrew)
> 
> גאָט -God (Yiddish)
> 
> من أنت- Who are you- (Arabic)
> 
> קח את זה -Take it (Hebrew)
> 
> لكن لماذا؟-But why? (Arabic)
> 
> آسف-Sorry (Arabic)
> 
> حسنا-Okay (Arabic)
> 
> הַר הַבַּיִת-Temple Mount, famous landmark of Jerusalem (Hebrew)
> 
> ישראל-Israel (Hebrew)
> 
> -Baklava: Arabic treat originating in the Ottoman Empire.
> 
> -Dates rolls are a common treat in Israel.
> 
> -Taquiyah: Muslim prayer cap worn by men. The idea of wearing a cap for religious purposes was taken from Jewish traditions such as that of wearing the kippah. 
> 
> -Quotes from the Torah are taken from Leviticus 19:18 and Deuteronomy 11:13 respectively.
> 
> -The Israeli government did come close to establishing relations with a handful of Middle Eastern countries, notably Jordan, but (at least in Jordan’s case) the discussion was intercut by British intervention, due to Britain’s interest in oil in that region. 
> 
> -Also, because I’m way too lazy to footnote all this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Israel.


End file.
